"So you are Robert Fenley," he communed, packing the portfolio leisurely. "Well, if Sylvia Manning marries you, I'll be a bachelor all my days, for I'll never dare imagine I know anything about a woman's soul; though I'm prepared at this hour of grace to stake my career that that girl's soul is worthy of her very perfect body." Puffing a good deal, Fenley contrived to overhaul his "cousin." "By jing, Sylvia, you can step out a bit," he said. "And you change your mind mighty quick. Five minutes ago you were ready to wait any length of time till that Johnny turned up, and now you're doing more than five per. What's the rush? It's only half past seven, and we don't dress tonight." "I'm not dining downstairs," she answered. "Oh, I say, I can't stand Hilton all alone." "Nor can I stand either of you," she was tempted to retort, but contented herself by saying that she had arranged for a meal to be served in her aunt's room. Grumble and growl as he might, Robert could not shake her resolve; he was in a vile temper when he reached the dining-room. His brother had not arrived, so he braced himself for an ordeal by drinking a stiff whisky and soda. When Hilton came in the pair nodded to each other but ate in silence. At last Robert glanced up at Tomlinson. "Just shove the stuff on the table and clear out," he said. "We'll help ourselves. Mr. Hilton and I want to have a quiet talk." Hilton gave him a quick underlook but did not interfere. Perhaps purposely, when the servants had left the room he opened the battle with a sneer. "I hope you didn't make a fool of yourself this evening," he said. "As how?" queried Robert, wondrously subdued to all appearance, though aching to give the other what he called "a bit of his mind." "I understand you made after Sylvia and the artist, meaning to chastise somebody." "You were wrong," said Robert slowly. "You nearly always are. I make mistakes myself, but I own up handsomely. You don't. That's where we differ, see?" "I see differences," and Hilton helped himself to a glass of claret. "Trenholme, the artist Johnny, is a clever chap--slightly cracked, as they all are, but dashed clever. By gad, you ought to see the picture he's painted of Sylvia. Anyhow, you _will_ see it. I've bought it." "Really?" "I said I'd buy it--same thing. He'll jump at the offer. It'll hang in my dressing-room. I don't suppose Sylvia will kick about a trifle like that when we're married." Hilton was holding the glass of wine to his lips. His hand shook, and he spilled a little, but he drank the remainder. "When did you decide to marry Sylvia?" he inquired, after a pause which might have been needed to gain control of his voice. "It's been decided for a long time," said Robert doggedly, himself showing some signs of enforced restraint. "It was the pater's wish, as you know. I'm sorry now I didn't fix matters before he died; but 'better late than never.' I asked Sylvia today, and we've arranged to get married quite soon."